


Dance For The Glory Of

by tielan



Category: Black Jewels - Anne Bishop, Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Black Jewels Fusion, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Black Jewels Fusion, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Merlin AU: Black Jewels, Romance, Seasonal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-29
Updated: 2011-08-29
Packaged: 2017-10-23 05:14:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tielan/pseuds/tielan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Winsol, the Blood's greatest celebration, when they dance for the glory of Witch. Merlin has known this all his life, but this Winsol is different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dance For The Glory Of

**Author's Note:**

> The warning is for an attempted rape.

_Why are they putting up decorations in the snow, mama?_

 _It's Winsol, Merlin. The Blood's greatest celebration, when we dance for the glory of Witch._

 _What's Witch, mama?_

 _Witch is the Queen, the ruler of the Darkness from which the Blood all come. She is the remembrance of all we are and could be, our dreams made flesh in a Black-Jewelled Queen who embodies our greatest hopes and our greatest fears._

 _Our greatest hope - to have a good Queen to rule the Blood?_

 _Yes, Merlin._

 _If she's a good Queen, why would she be our greatest fear?_

 _Do you remember what Will's father has been teaching you about Protocol? About the relationship between a Queen and her males?_

 _That it's a dance - a balance. We yield to a Queen, put our lives in her hands, and she rules us with tenderness and affection; we are her strength if she has little, her shield and her strong sword arm._

 _Harold would put it like that, I suppose. Yes, Merlin, a Queen should rule her males with care for their lives and their honour. But what if she doesn't? What if the Queen who ruled your life wasn't a good one?_

 _Males serve. That's what feels right. But a Queen should be good!_

 _Yes, she should be, but not all of them are. Most, but not all. We're fortunate here in Ealdor - Lady Sival is a good Queen - a Queen worth serving._

 _That's why Harold serves her._

 _Yes. You'll serve a good Queen, someday._

 _You know that, mama?_

 _No. But I know you, my Merlin. Someday, you'll serve in a Queen's court and you'll understand what it means to dance for the glory of Witch at Winsol._

\--

Gwen's already late up to the castle to help Morgana dress for the night's celebration, but she pauses with her cloak about her shoulders to have a moment with her father.

"You'll be all right while I'm away?"

He looks up from his bowl of stew, his mild face offended at her concern. "No need to worry yourself, Gwen. The lads up at the smithy will be company enough for your old man this evening."

"I'll be back in the morning. Lady Morgana's given me the mornings and early afternoons off, you know."

"Well, you won't need to spend it all down here in town." His spoon is set down on the table with a thump. "I'll be in and out as usual, and there's no call for you to be wandering through the cold streets if there's no need. Go on up to the castle and don't fret about me. You've got important things to do."

"Like running errands for the aristos up at the castle?"

"I was thinking maybe flirting with the king's knights." The grin on his face turns innocent as Gwen regards him with exasperation. "I know, I know. You've not made the Offering to the Darkness, yet. But it's something to think about."

Her breath catches in her throat, reluctance like a leaden weight in her belly. "No. Not yet. Father, I'm...I'm not ready."

Her father sees her distress and comes to press warm lips against her brow. "I'm sorry, Gwennie. I know your mother said I should let you choose your own time - and she'd have known better than us both, eh? Still," one forge-calloused hand rested against her cheek, "I can't say I'm not looking forward to seeing you form your own court. You deserve better than this."

They've talked about this - argued about it, even.

Maybe it's easy for other Queens - daughters of aristo houses, brought up to the idea that they'll rule. Things were different in their old village, but Gwen's been a servant in Camelot almost as long as she can remember, and the thought that she could hold in her hands the lives and trust of the males who'd serve in her court leaves her cold.

She's seen the Blood abuse such trust before; she doesn't want to be like them.

What male would want to serve a servant Queen, anyway?

And so Gwen brings up the same defence she's brought up every time her father speaks of the topic. "Not all Queens need to gather a court and rule, father."

And to speak of such things in Camelot is doubly dangerous. Prince Uthyr has held sway since the death of his wife Igraine, and he brooks no talk of a Queen's rule, has forbidden the Hourglass Coven to practise or teach their Craft, and follows the Laws and Protocols of the Blood at his own whimsy.

Gwen's thought about leaving Camelot, about going out to one of the towns, maybe out to another of the Five Territories in Albion. But their lives and livelihood are here in Camelot - her father's smithy, her service to Lady Morgana. To leave all that would mean starting again - would mean leaving the familiar and safe for the unknown.

She's not willing to do that any more than she's willing to make the Offering.

Not yet, anyway.

"Well, maybe a Queen doesn't have to rule," her father concedes, looking down at her. "But you'd be a good Queen, my Gwen."

Gwen's not so sure of that.

There's something inside her, something dark and powerful and glorious - something that struggles against the meekness of the servant she's learned to be. She masks it in her daily life, in the mundaneity of her tasks as the servant of Lady Morgana, but sometimes it pushes against her like the weight of a heat-wave, a destiny she doesn't want.

\--

Merlin catches up to Gwen as she climbs the kitchen stairs with the bowl of rum and the silver cups. "Let me take that."

"Merlin—" Her protest is wasted as he lifts the bowl of hot rum from the tray with Craft, and 'carries' it between his hands, careful not to touch the sides of the silver tureen. "You didn't have to do that."

"Yes, I did, actually." Merlin grins at her exasperated look and falls into step beside her. "You look lovely tonight, Gwen. The…" His hand makes a gesture at the thin gold wire that slips in and out of her hair – nothing so obvious as a circlet, merely a bronze gleam against the ebony of her hair.

"Morgana's Winsol gift. She insisted I wear it."

Merlin grins. That sounds like something Morgana would do – give a gift and then insist Gwen wear it. "Her taste is excellent. It suits you."

It suits who she should be – a respected and admired Queen, not a servant to the aristo Pendragons. But this is the life Gwen's been brought up in, and it's what she knows. That'll change when she makes the Offering to the Darkness and takes up her Jewels.

Merlin has it on good authority that things are going to change.

As they enter the solarium, he steps to the left and lets her walk a half-step ahead. She doesn't realise it - few in Camelot will - but in doing so, Merlin declares his Ebon-Grey strength is in her service.

She's his Queen - the Queen he's meant to serve, her will to be his life, his honour yielded to hers.

Gwen doesn't realise it yet, but she will.

In the meantime, they're just servants in the Pendragon household, waiting.

"Ah, and here's our rum." Uthyr waves them forward to the table, frowning at little at Merlin's use of Craft, although he says nothing. It's not forbidden for servants to use Craft in Camelot, although they can't openly wear their Jewels among the aristo houses, but the more obvious uses are frowned upon.

Tonight's gathering in the frost-paned solarium is a small one before the dancing and the feast - Uthyr, Arthur, Morgana, Gaius, Gwen, and Merlin. It would have been only the Pendragons and Gaius, but Morgana demanded Gwen's presence since Gaius was going to be there, and Gaius requested Merlin and after Arthur backed up Merlin's mentor, Uthyr acceded.

The small silver cups are filled with the hot blooded rum - three only, since the cups are to be shared.

"On this Winsol night, we celebrate," says Uthyr, lifting his cup high before drinking half and handing the cup to Gaius.

"To the Darkness." Arthur says before drinking down his share of the toast and turning to Gwen, who takes it gently from his hands with a faint smile of thanks.

"To the glory of Witch," murmurs Morgana. Her fingertips brush Merlin's as she hands him the warm silver cup, and he trembles as her nails graze his skin. He was trained in the Hourglass - a discipline forbidden in Camelot, punishable by death - while Morgana is untrained in the Craft that should be hers as one of the Black Widow caste.

Still, for all that she's untrained, the poison tooth beneath the littlest finger of her left hand needs no training to use should she be driven to it.

The touch is not intended as a warning, but Merlin takes it as such.

He drinks the rum, feeling its heat run all the way down to his belly, and wishes for the day when he'll get to be the Prince he always wanted to be: strong sword-arm and shield to a Queen worth serving.

\--

The witchlights burn brightly in above the gathered throng, as the witches and Blood males of Camelot's aristo families celebrate the Winsol season.

"Not that any of them know the glory of Witch," Morgana murmurs as an aside to Gwen.

She only vaguely remembers the Protocol she learned as a girl in her father's household - a household that followed the old ways of the Blood - but what she remembers she remembers well. In Gorlois' household, she would have been taught the Hourglass Craft that she's now denied, would have been the full measure of what she can't be here in Uthyr's Camelot.

"It's been a long time since Witch walked the realms," Gwen says, her voice quiet and reflective. "The Blood forget."

"Some Blood forget." Morgana looks out among the crowded throng of the room - fine silks, rich velvets, soft wools - and the hungry, greedy eyes of those grasping at a power they can't comprehend. "But we'll remember in time."

Sometimes she dreams of the future, of the yet-to-bes that might still be. She's dreamed of a Queen rising over Camelot in dark glory, of males called to serve in honour, of her own gifts recognised and acknowledged, used by a Queen who doesn't fear a dark-Jewelled Black Widow as the males of Camelot do.

"Lady Morgana." Sir Leon comes up to her and bows, made bold with rum and the energy of the night. "Will you dance with me?"

Morgana glimpses Gwen's smirk as she lets herself be led away to the dance. Leon's a good man and a good dancer - it's a pleasure to partner him.

But one dance leads to another, and she can't dance them all with a mere Opal-Jewelled Warlord of a minor aristo house. So she changes partners again and again, smiles and flirts as is expected of her, accepts drinks and dances, and her head spins with the whirl of music and movement until she's dizzy and her current dance partner leads her from the great hall out into one of the side chambers...

...where a half-dozen males are waiting.

Morgana's mind freezes, her body's instincts screaming at her as the door locks behind them. The meaning of the odd taste lingering in her mouth crashes in on her as she tries to push him away, tries to call for help on an Opal psychic thread.

Tries and fails against the Green shield that surrounds the room.

"Uthyr will have you shaved for this!" At least her tongue's still working.

"Maybe. Or maybe he'll be grateful that he no longer has to dither over what to do with you - a Black Widow in his household..."

Morgana hears their laughter as though from far away. The hot greed of their hands groping her is more immediate, and she struggles as her skin goes cold...

Or maybe what she senses is the chill of a dark, feminine anger she doesn't recognise and yet feels as though she should. Certainly, she recognises the cold Sapphire rage that comes a moment later - a Warlord Prince at the killing edge.

"Step away from my sister. I'll only ask once."

"She fainted in the heat of the party. Too much to drink, no doubt."

Their lies flow fluid from their lips, but she has no voice to accuse them. Then Gwen's there, warm hands tugging Morgana's dress up over her breasts, shielding her from the rest of the room.

"Get out," Gwen breathes, and there's something terrible in her voice - worse than a Warlord Prince's fury - that makes every male in the room shiver; even Arthur, even Merlin.

They leave in a hurry, directed by Merlin, menaced by Arthur.

As they go, reaction sets in.

Morgana begins to shake in Gwen's arms, unable to speak, unable to even cry.

\--

In the early morning hours, when aristo and servant alike are asleep, Arthur waits for Guinevere at the bottom of the stairs that lead up to Morgana's room. She pauses when she sees him, then continues on down and he joins her on her way through towards the servants' quarters.

"How is she?"

"Sleeping, now. Gaius' potion helped." Dark eyes lift to his, sensing the rage that flares hotly in him - the brutal temper of a Warlord Prince. "They didn't break her, Arthur."

"They could have." If Guinevere hadn't noticed them taking Morgana away, if she hadn't come to find him, if they hadn't gotten through the shield blocking the door...

He knows what they intended to do. He even knows why. A witch's weakness lies in her vulnerability during her moon's blood and in her Virgin Night - the spidersilk-thin thread by which her Jewelled strength hangs.

Morgana's a Black Widow - the only known Black Widow in Camelot. She's been protected as his father's ward for this long.

How much longer will that last?

Cool fingers touch his arm, draining his fury away like sluice-gates opened. "They didn't."

"Merlin said he dealt with them." Although what his manservant did, Arthur doesn't know - the young aristo males walked out of the castle on their own two feet, instead of in boxes shouldered by six men.

And Morgana insisted on going back in to dance after Guinevere fixed her dress.

"He did."

"How do you know?"

"He told me." Her trust in Merlin disconcerts him as much as the look she gives him. The circlet that threads through her hair gleams in the light of the candelabra they pass, draws his gaze down the curling ebony lock to the point where her throat joins her shoulder.

Sudden heat flares in him, molten in his chest, in his gut, in his loins.

Guinevere does this to him - has always affected him like this. She blunts his temper with nothing more than a word or a touch, goads his honour with nothing more than a look or a sigh. She's a servant girl who wears no Jewels he can discern, a Queen who seeks no males for her court, yet who drags at his soul like no witch he's ever met.

Arthur shouldn't cup her elbow with his hand and prompt her into an empty resting-chamber off the corridor. He shouldn't call a ball of witchlight to light the shadows around them. He shouldn't call in the crystal sphere that sings out the opening notes of one of the better-known dances.

"Prince?"

It's a relief to turn and find her looking at him with startled eyes - surprise, but no fear. He doesn't frighten her.

Guinevere terrifies him.

"I... Will you dance with me, Lady?"

"Now?"

"Yes."

Tonight, Arthur's danced with a hundred aristo witches - pretty simpering things his own age, and mature women whose psychic scents invited him to desire. But the one witch he wanted to dance with never took to the floor at all.

When she lifts her hands in invitation, Arthur rests his fingers on hers - just a moment's touch, before the dance begins.

It starts off sober, the notes of the ancient song careful and clear in the empty chamber. They move around each other, circling gently, fingertips touching. The music grows, adding a harmonic line, and now it's palm to palm as they step in, step out, turn this way and that. Guinevere's hand presses cool against his, and Arthur feels his skin flush with a heat he doesn't hide.

He's a Sapphire-Jewelled Warlord Prince of the Blood; he has nothing to hide here - neither strength, nor power, nor desire.

Now the melody swells, a symphony of life and chorus. The dance calls for a hand pressed lightly against the cheek as the dancers circle, their other hands joined between them. Often, between lovers, the dance stops here - heads cupped in a kiss.

They're not lovers.

Still, Arthur slides his hand behind her head and bends down for the kiss - slowly, so all Guinevere has to do is push him away. Instead, her fingertips linger on his jaw as her lips move beneath his - a tentative, careful kiss, delicate as the first snowdrops.

A chaste sip of Guinevere isn't enough, though. Arthur wants the full cup to savour. He opens his mouth to nip at her lower lip, his fingers tangling in soft curls.

And something resonates between them, beneath him, like a plucked string vibrating the air around them - an echoing psychic hum that tastes of power and a Queen's deep strength, unmistakeably feminine, uncompromisingly dark.

Desire rushes through him, vivid as rage, powerful as a blow.

Arthur wants to lean into that power, wants to lean into _her_.

He wants to close the door to the world outside and take her down with him to the floor, to walk out of the room when the sun's high overhead with the saunter of a Warlord Prince well-used by his Queen.

He can't.

Even in Guinevere's interest, he can taste her innocence. Like Morgana, she hasn't yet had her Virgin Night. And Arthur doesn't trust himself to see her through it, hard as the knowledge is. He'd never forgive himself if he was the one to break her.

So he backs off by careful degrees, fighting his own hunger, resisting hers, newly awakened. And has to be content with the fact that she tries to follow him as he draws away.

Curling lashes lift over lightly glazed eyes, and Arthur almost smiles at her expression - soft wonder. Instead, he brushes his thumb along her cheek. "Happy Winsol, Guinevere."

\--

 _You look like you've seen an army of the demon dead._

 _I... No. Just Gwen. And Arthur._

 _What, together?_

 _Yes, together. But not like that! Not yet. They were dancing. They didn't see me - they weren't seeing anything but each other._

 _And seeing Arthur and Gwen together is cause for the look in your eyes when you came in?_

 _Yes! No. Not exactly. Gaius, she's Witch._

 _Witch? Guinevere?_

 _Yes, Guinevere. Witch. Dreams made flesh. But I... I don't think she knows it yet._

 _She has to know it, Merlin. One doesn't just wake up as Witch one day - one grows into it._

 _Well, maybe she hasn't gotten to the growing part yet._

 _Guinevere only wears the Opal, Merlin. It's not possible for her to wear the Black. Witch always wears the Black._

 _I know! I don't know how it's possible. All I know is that...I felt it. I felt her, Gaius - echoing in the Black. Beneath me - darker than my Ebon-Grey... She's Witch, Gaius, I know it... Wait! Her mother!_

 _What about her mother?_

 _She said her mother was an Opal Jewelled Black Widow back in their village, before they came here. What if the Jewel isn't hers at all but her mother's? What if...what if she's been disguised as harmless?_

 _To what purpose?_

 _Well...where else is a Queen needed but in Camelot? And how better to get a Queen to where she needs to be by making her seem powerless? Harmless?_

 _Merlin, the kind of tangled web you're talking about can't be done. Not by a single Black Widow._

 _Then maybe it's not just one Black Widow - maybe it's the entire Hourglass coven. Uthyr's always believed the Hourglass is conspiring against him. Maybe he's right. Maybe the Queen he fears is right under his nose, unnoticed._

 _And seducing his son?_

 _It was just a kiss. And it's Winsol, Gaius. We dance for the glory of Witch; maybe Arthur's just dancing a little differently._

 _You're taking this very calmly, you know._

 _My mother always said that someday I'd serve in a Queen's court and understand what it meant to dance for the glory of Witch. I never knew that until this year, though._

 _Does it make that much of a difference? If Guinevere is Witch?_

 _No, I guess it doesn't. Gwen would be a Queen worth serving even if she wore the White. That she's Witch, too, though, is...right. It all fits._

 _And you serve Witch._

 _I serve Gwen. Whether or not she's Witch. That's all the destiny I need._


End file.
